


Shoes to Fill

by lunchgroup



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Graphic Depictions of Feelings, Multi, ambiguous cause of death, emetophobia warning: mentions of vomit, some people write fic to cope????
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 12:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunchgroup/pseuds/lunchgroup
Summary: Spock, in time, will learn how to compartmentalize his emotions, to step up and be the captain he needs to be, to make his t'hy'la proud. But first he needs to do the hard part.





	Shoes to Fill

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to my boyfriend's passing.

_"I can't explain the state that I'm in_  
_The state of my heart, he was my best friend"_

     Absolute, stock-still shock is what comes first. He lets out a breath like he's been punched in the gut, and the floor threatens to rise up and meet him. His ears are ringing and his head swims, his vision blurs, losing patches here and there while his stomach considers emptying itself. He excuses himself in a wordless blur that will never be remembered, knees nearly failing every step. By no small miracle, he makes it back to his quarters without falling or throwing up. He grabs the door and manually wrenches it shut behind him.

     Then screaming. Violent, guttural screaming. That's all Spock can do. Screams of anger, of pain, and fear. He screams in other languages, yells in a tongue only the grieving would understand. He screams for what feels like ages, until there's nothing left inside. Until his voice gives out, and all that's left to do is sob. He knows people hear him, wants them to. Wants them to hear his pain, to know how much he is hurting. How utterly deserted with these _emotions_ he's been left.

     Somehow it’s worse when he stops screaming. Screaming gave him something to do, something to focus on, something he could control. His mind is left to race in silence. The major questions repeat in his mind. When? Where? Why? How? He’s not sure if he’d rather know than not. His empathy kicks into overdrive, and a fresh wave of nausea rolls over him. How scared he must have been. How alone he must have felt. How long had he suffered?

     When he finally opens his eyes after long minutes of silence, he realizes that he's collapsed on the floor. His legs are splayed out in front of him, back leaning against the bed. He’s stuck, can’t get up, body uncooperative. He has nowhere to go; wouldn't go if he had to anyway. Instead he lies down, wedging himself in the corner of the bed and floor as if to hide, as if he were a small animal preparing to die. He runs his hand over the carpet, over his pants, over the carpet again. He scratches at it until his nails burn and the fibers threaten to unravel, just to _feel._ He tries to keep his body still, but a sob every few seconds makes its way through his muscles, like a defibrillator kicking him back to life.

     He sobs hard enough to gag, but holds it back. The taste stings his mouth and stays sharp; there's no saliva left to wash it back. It's all he can do to screw up his face, forcing himself not to vomit. His head is pounding in a way it never has, like he has migraine, heat stroke, and a concussion at the same time. His body is exhausted like he’s sprinted a marathon, legs tense and aching. He can feel every muscle on his scalp twitching, panicking at whatever danger must be around for him to react this way. He wants to sleep. Wants to postpone all the thoughts and feelings he'll have to have until a time he's ready. He'll never be ready.

     He finds his teeth are clenched in a vice-grip. He tries to open his mouth, and it immediately starts shivering despite the warm room. The rest of his body is strung up like a piano, and it takes more effort than he can give to relax. He's also sweating profusely, with beads of it mixing with tears and snot, making a mixture that screams he's Alive, Alive, Alive. It disgusts him, and he scrubs his hands over his face. That only makes it worse; he can feel it in high detail over his fingers.

     He gags again as he rolls away, half-crawling to the bathroom. He turns on the shower with real water, and sticks his face and hands in. His upper body is drenched in seconds, puddles on the floor marching toward the bedroom but he cannot be assed to care. He sits, torso inside and legs once again spread in front of him outside.

     Flashes of Jim invade his mind when his eyes close. Jim in Spock’s shower, hurrying to wash away the evidence of a night together before an early shift. Jim and Spock crammed in together, taking turns washing each other’s back and rubbing out knots after a particularly trying away mission. Jim on his knees, right about where Spock is now, giving love to Spock with as much passion as he could muster. Opening his eyes isn’t much better. He spots Jim’s soap on a shelf. Can almost smell it. The way it permeated his hair, skin, clothes, Spock’s pillow.

     Spock realizes he’s using past-tense verbs for Jim now, and a fresh sob rings the shower like a bell. It’s almost comforting to hear, grounding him to his body and the moment. He lets himself yell and groan.

     An uncertain amount of time later, there's a loud knock and chime at the door, and he groans with what little might he has left. He isn't sure he's even heard over the shower. The door makes a sound alerting thats its lock has been overridden, and whoever comes in stays in the doorway.

Spock thinks he can almost see Jim in the reflection of his mirror.

It's not him, though. Obviously. What an irrational thought.

     Not-Jim finally rounds the corner into the bathroom. It’s the good doctor. His cheeks and eyes are stained red, face also smeared with snot and tears. He gasps lightly as he sees Spock, worry showing in every muscle muscle of his face, then he sighs once he realizes he's ok. Still breathing. Still alive.

     Any other day, any other situation, and Spock would have chastised him for breaching his privacy, would have formulated some sort of half-apology that he hadn't prepared for the doctor’s arrival. Instead he reaches up and turns the shower off, now soaked head to toe.

     Leonard is shaking his head. At first Spock thinks it's directed at this incredibly sad display of _emotion_ , but he realizes his head is turned down, tears flowing anew.

"I couldn't even fuckin’ finish his paperwork. Some shit doctor I am."

     Spock wants to yell, to grab him and say that's a completely normal, human reaction and _how dare he_ second guess his own abilities. Instead he nods, and scoots over in the shower to make room. Leonard laughs a little and says, "I love you, but I don’t think that would be good for either of us," he motions to the water, now almost completely covering the floor. Instead, he comes over and makes efforts to pick Spock up, but it's difficult when he doesn't cooperate.

"C'mon honey, I can’t pick you up myself and you know that." Spock's brain latches onto and repeats _honey, honey, honey,_ and he allows himself to be lifted.

**Author's Note:**

> Quote from "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades Is Out to Get Us!" by Sufjan Stevens


End file.
